


Truth Happiness Lies Part 1

by mellod89



Series: Definitions Series [2]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellod89/pseuds/mellod89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>truth  [trooth] noun, plural truths   </p>
<p>conformity with fact or reality; verity: the truth of a statement.</p>
<p>hap·pi·ness [hap-ee-nis] noun</p>
<p>good fortune; pleasure; contentment; joy. </p>
<p>lie</p>
<p>1  [lahy]  Show IPA . noun, verb, lied, ly·ing.</p>
<p>something intended or serving to convey a false impression; imposture: His flashy car was a lie  that deceived no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Happiness Lies Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Here’s a bit of a tear jerker for you. There is no happy involved. At all. Heed the warnings and bring the tissues. Thanks to hiddle-stoner.tumblr.com/ for the betaing.

“I’m so tired of trying to make them happy.” I grasp my cup of tea for comfort.

“So don’t.” I look him briefly in the eye, and he grabs my hand. “You always put yourself second, and then tell yourself you’ll only be happy once everyone else is happy, but all it does is make you miserable.” He pauses, waiting for a response, but all I can do is look down at my paper cup, hoping that he’s done with this conversation. He’s not. I can tell by the way he refuses to let go of my hand, and how he keeps trying to get me to look him in the eyes.

I hate myself in this moment. I can’t take my tears, and I can’t take how patient he’s being with me. I just want to yell at him; tell him that he doesn’t know what it’s like to fall flat on your face with your entire family telling you I told you so, to not have unconditional support, but I know that’s not completely true. For years his dad would constantly harp on him about his career choices, but he didn’t let him win. He knows what I’m going through, but not really.

“You don’t understand,” I finally say into my cup, still afraid to let him see my face.

“Then help me to,” he says encouragingly.

Curling in on myself, I take a deep, shuddering breath. “From as early as I can remember, the only place I felt safe was in my imagination. I’d talk to my favorite characters, pretending to be someone else, be somewhere else, because I hated my life. I felt that my parents didn’t love me, that my siblings resented me, and that the only thing that I was good for was taking care of other people. When I got to school and learned that people got to pretend to be someone else on a stage, and I got the chance to do it, I felt like I finally found a home.” For a moment, I feel at peace. My shoulders drop, my face serene. Then I open my eyes as reality hits.

“When I told my parents that I wanted to be in more plays and that I wanted to learn to sing and dance, they said that we didn’t have the money for it, and that it wasn’t practical. As I got older and more withdrawn from my family, I joined clubs at school that allowed me to do those things, and again, I felt at home, and I realized this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I told them, my family, this, and they said You will never be successful and it’s too hard, and you will never have a stable life. So I studied, got good grades, and got into school for free. I studied theatre, of all things, because I couldn’t stop, regardless of having no support, but I only acted in a handful of shows. For the most part, I was a techie. It was easy, and I needed something to do while I was there. I got good at it, really good, and people kept asking me to design their shows, but all I really wanted to do was be in them. But I put myself aside and designed their shows, and I lost my nerve to act. My auditions (which weren’t that great in the first place) just got worse and worse, and even my acting teachers were beginning to tell me that I should strongly consider technical theatre, so I did, and my parents said Good, more reliable than acting. You’ll be better paid too. So I got into design school where they told me I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t prepared, that I needed more time, time they couldn’t give me, so after a year and a half, they let me go. My parents then complained that the school didn’t train me and that I should have just gone after a real job in the first place. I did nothing for four months but cry and not sleep. Then you came along and reminded me of my first love, and I hated you, and I hated myself for giving up so easily, for wanting to just die. And while this was going on, I constantly had my parents telling me that I needed to figure out what my next move would be. What are you going to do to now, they’d ask.Have you figured it out yet? I’d sullenly tell them no, that I didn’t want to talk about it, and I kept thinking about you. I couldn’t deny it anymore; I wanted to go back to my first love, so I told them that I wanted to go back to school to get more theatre training. They said, Great, we’ll support you in anything you want, but you need to be practical. Mom said I should consider going into teaching, but not theatre because they were cutting arts in school. I should do English instead. Dad said that going back to school was too expensive and I should just get a job. I knew it was coming from a place of love, but never once did they say, Do what makes you happy or Follow your dreams. Not once. They expect me to do what they say because their word is law. So I do it to be respectful, and to make them love me, because all my life, all I ever wanted them to do was love all of me, but I know that’s never going to happen, so why bother, right? Why care? Because the child in me still hopes that maybe, one day, they finally will, and that will be the day that I will truly be happy.”

Silence grows between us. The torrent of tears has left a small puddle in the lid of my cup. I continue to sniffle as he wipes the tears from my eyes. I don’t acknowledge him. I sit still like a statue. He places a finger beneath my chin to bring our eyes level. I shut mine tightly. I can’t bear to let him see how pathetic I am. I just want a hole to devour me, to keep me from ever having to see the light of day again, but it doesn’t happen.

“Look at me,” he softly commands.

“I can’t,” my voice cracks. “I just want to die.”

“Please,” he pleads brokenly. I reluctantly open my eyes, only to see that his are equally as red and tear streaked as mine must be. 

“Why are you crying,” I ask in disbelief.

“No one should ever have to feel the way that you do. No child should ever feel like they have to sacrifice their happiness for the love of their parents. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your happiness for the love of your family. You should be happy with no conditions or stipulations. It should be something that’s spontaneous, not dictated by the will of others, or for their benefit. It should be yours to behold. I hate that you’re going through this, and that I’m part of the reason that you’re so unhappy now. I just wish I knew what I could do to make you feel worthy of that happiness.” He looks so lost in that moment, like a child finding out they’ve been lied to by their hero. He should be the one comforting me, putting my fears aside, but in that moment, all I can think is that I did this to him and I need to make it right. He should be the one that’s happy, so I do the one thing that I do best, put my own feelings aside and do what I know would make him feel better.

“Just hold me. Make me feel loved.” He wraps me up in his arms and breathes me in. I resist the urge to push him away, and let him take comfort in the feel of my body against his chest. I match my breathing to his to further welcome a sense of calm, and soon he’s led into a false hope that things will get better. It’s a lie that I’ve become good at telling myself, and for him, I’d do anything to make him believe it.


End file.
